


not touched the stars

by akamine_chan



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-14 22:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13017915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan
Summary: Before he even got to the gates, Mikey could smell the magic.





	not touched the stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [turps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/turps/gifts).



> Hope you enjoy this, Turps!

Before he even got to the gates, Mikey could smell the magic. He was downwind of the City, and the breeze carried a chaotic mix of scents, Humans and Fae, Orcs and Treefolk and other uncanny creatures. He inhaled deeply and the musty flower odor of mystical energy tickled the back of his throat. He sneezed several times in quick succession, rocking back on his heels a little.

Mikey stretched out his _othersenses_ and felt the magnetic pull of iron, the bright energies of pitchblende, the subtle poisons of cinnabar. At the far edge of the City, he could feel barrels of blackpowder warded against flame and heat.

What he didn't detect, though, was any trace of Gerard. He tried not to let himself feel too disappointed, even though the information that brought him here had been the best lead he'd had in years. "Oh, Gerard," he sighed. "Where are you?"

The moon was high in the sky, but Mikey could see that the City was alive with activity, the gate crowded with people. He carefully checked his jacket, popping up the collar and zipping it up, and pushing the sleeves down before heading down the hill toward the City.

At the gates, a pair of City Watch looked him over, and he smiled at them, sweet and innocent, and the elder guard, obviously a veteran, snorted at him before waving him through. "Good try, kid," he muttered as Mikey walked by.

Mikey laughed a little and hoisted his pack higher on his shoulder. He was hungry, and tired, and it had been a long day. He turned back to the guard. He had the curliest hair that Mikey had ever seen, and honest brown eyes. "Got a recommendation for a good inn? Someplace cheap, but where I'm not likely to get stabbed in my sleep?"

"Try the Dark Dragon," the watch said. "Decent beds, good food, won't empty your purse. Follow the River until you see the Tree; it'll be on the left, on Hippogryph Street." He winked at Mikey. "Tell them that Ray Toro sent you."

"Thanks, friend," Mikey said with a nod, taking the right fork toward the River. It was a cool night, and the River was alive with the hustle and bustle of a busy port city. The sound of water washing against the banks, the muted calls of the riverfolk as they poled their way downstream, the pungent smell of fish and seaweed; all of it served to remind Mikey of the home that he'd left behind.

* * *

The Tree loomed tall over the City, its massive trunk reaching up toward the pale moon faces of the Sisters, hanging high in the sky. Mikey had first seen the Tree days ago, a magnificent column in the distance that had grown larger and larger as he approached the City.

From where Mikey stood at the foot of the Tree, it was impossible to comprehend how huge it was. The branches spread up and out, as far as the eye could see, and disappearing into the darkness.

The Tree was old, had been _ancient_ when the first people had settled here. The City grew around the Tree, roads and buildings curving around the rough bark of its trunk.

It was an anchor point for the magics in the region, a conduit for power, and the Tree guarded over the City. In his _othersight_ , the Tree glowed brightly, yellow and red magic flowing like a river up through the Tree and into the sky.

Mikey got close enough to touch the trunk, smiling a little at the rush of power moving beneath the surface, like the sound of a distant heartbeat. He pushed with his _othersenses_ and felt...something ancient and alien stirring sluggishly, the faintest hint of recognition. 

The Tree's presence tasted of green and smelled of freshly turned soil. The Tree touched him with a tendril of energy, lightly pressing against his thoughts before retreating, returning to its contemplation of sunlight and water and leafy-ness.

"Good evening, elder," Mikey murmured, nodding in deference.

* * *

The Dark Dragon was a double-storey building, a rough wooden sign emblazoned with a dragon hanging high. The door was ajar, and the sound of conversation and laughter drifted to Mikey's ears. 

The front desk was manned by a Fae, broad shouldered and dark-haired, with an impressive amount of stubble on his face. "Can I help you?" he asked. His voice was deep and gravelly.

"I'm looking for a room," Mikey said. He held out his empty hands, trying to appear harmless. Mikey knew what he looked like, tall and thin, dressed in sturdy clothing. He was too skinny to pass for a farmer, but he made a convincing craftsman.

The Fae eyed him suspiciously. "Full up. No rooms," he said, flipping pages in the big guest book on the counter.

Mikey looked at him with disbelief. "Oh yeah? Ray Toro told me to tell you that he sent me."

The Fae rolled his eyes. "Why didn't you just say so?" He turned the guest book around and pushed it toward Mikey. "We rent by the hour, the day, the week. If you want anything less than a week, you pay in advance. For anything more, you pay half up front and your meals are included."

Mikey thought about how light his purse was, too light for his comfort. It had been a while since he'd been in one place long enough to earn some coin. "How much for a week?"

"Thirty silver," the Fae replied.

Mikey had just enough to cover the deposit, and he'd have a week to earn the rest. "Done," he said, accepting the quill and signing the guestbook with a flourish.

The Fae squinted at his signature. "Welcome to the Dark Dragon, Mister M-squiggle Way."

"It's Mikey," he said with a laugh. "Mikey Way."

"Dewees, at your service," the Fae said.

* * *

Late that night, Mikey nursed a mug of ale in the taproom, watching two Orcish folk play a spirited game of darts. It was past the Basilisk's Hour, the watch bell tolling the all's-well, and the rowdy crowd had dissipated as the night grew late.

"Ten copper on the one with the tattoos," Dewees offered diffidently as he polished a glass with a rag. The Orc in question had the elaborate facial tattoos of the Eastern tribes.

They also had a patch covering one eye, and Mikey knew a sure thing when he saw it. "Done."

The game continued, and Mikey's Orcish was almost non-existent, but he knew enough profanity to guess that the two Orcs were engaging in a little casual trash-talking, the way long-time friends tended to do.

Eye-Patch had a steady hand and amazing luck, but as Mikey suspected, it wasn't enough to overcome the lack of depth perception. Dewees produced two coins from the cashbox and slid them across the bar to Mikey.

"Thanks," he said, tucking them away in his purse. He finished off the ale and burped in polite appreciation. "I'm thinking about sticking around for a little while."

"It's a nice place," Dewees offered. "Captain Toro's cleared out the worst of the scum in the City Watch, so you're not as likely to get extorted by them. The Ladies provide free food and shelter to those in need, and since the Grand Corsair united the river clans, the rate of impressment by pirates has declined."

Mikey raised an eyebrow.

"The streets can still be dangerous, but—" Dewees shrugged. "No more than any other city."

Mikey toyed with the handle of his mug. "Just looking for a place to stop for a while. Earn some coin."

Dewees wiped at a spot on the bar. "I hear the Courtesan's Guild is always looking for apprentices."

That startled a laugh out of Mikey, and Dewees cast a sly glance at him. "Thanks, friend," he said through his grin. "But I've done an apprenticeship with the Courtesan's Guild, and found that the trade doesn't suit my temperament."

Dewees leered exaggeratedly. "Well, if you need to brush up on your skills, I am always willing to volunteer. Do your worst!"

"I'll keep that in mind," Mikey said. He eyed Dewees, who was stout and dark and rough around the edges, not Mikey's usual type at all, but still temptingly attractive.

"So, what can you do, then, if you're not planning on plying your abundant charms on the City streets?"

Mikey reached down and pulled a blade from his boot, moving slowly to keep from registering as a threat to Dewees. Knives were Mikey's weapon of choice, even though the steel _burned_ his kind. He held the dagger by the blade, testing the weight of the handle before tossing it into the air and catching it with a flourish. He twisted the knife through his fingers, across the back of his hand, around and around, letting it spin to a stop in the middle of his palm.

Dewees clapped his hands. "A juggler," he said, dryly.

The smile Mikey gave him was as sharp as his knife. He twisted and _threw_ , hitting the dartboard dead center. The Orcs, who had given up darts for the more vigorous sport of arm wrestling, cheered loudly.

"The City employs a cadre of jugglers for entertainment, but I suspect you would not find the work to your taste," Dewees mused. "But I know of a few...persons who may be interested in your particular skills."

"I would be most grateful," Mikey said, nodding to his empty mug. "Another round for me and my new Orcish friends."

The Orcs shouted their thanks when the drinks were delivered to their table. They saluted Mikey with their mugs before drinking with gusto.

* * *

Dewees had _connections_.

Mikey soon found himself faced with _choices_ regarding employment, everything from simple bodyguard duty to tracking down a wizard who'd stolen a rare tome of magical knowledge from the Librarian's Guild to delivering a love note between the sons of two prominent, feuding families.

He took the courier job, because he was secretly a romantic at heart. Pete, the sender, was clearly lovesick and desolate when the elders of his family forbade him to see his beloved Trick.

There was much drama; Pete seemed to thrive on it, and the packet that Pete gave him was heavy with pages and pages of what Mikey suspected was bad poetry and declarations of love to Trick.

In a year, both Pete and Trick would reach their majority, and wouldn't be kept apart by the petty politics between their families. But a year was a long time when you were desperately in love.

Trick was fair and blond, quiet and reserved, the complete opposite of Pete. He thanked Mikey for the swift completion of the delivery.

Mikey bowed and turned to take his leave, when Trick stopped him. "How was he?" he asked softly. "It's been a month, and..."

The words _I miss him_ were unsaid, but Mikey could see the truth of them. He said, baldly, "He is utterly ridiculous."

Trick smiled at that.

Mikey laid the back of his hand against his forehead. "It's 'the end of the world', and it's 'unfair and unconscionable', and 'absolute, heartless depravity, how dare they treat me like a child'." All which had been shouted loud enough for _all_ the elders of Pete's family to hear.

Trick's smile grew, and he laughed. "He's in good spirits, then."

"As good as can be expected, under the circumstances."

Trick ran his fingers over the parchment packet, like it was a beloved pet. "Thank you. This—this means a lot to us. You've been properly compensated?"

Mikey thought about the rather generous payment that Pete had given him. "Yes, thank you."

Shaking his head, Trick said, "No, thank you. It's been hard on both of us, being apart, and it's easy to let myself fall into melancholy. Knowing that he's out there, still waiting, still _loving_ makes all the difference in the worlds."

"Good Luck," Mikey said. He suspected somehow that Pete and Trick wouldn't need it. "If you have further need of my services, ask for me at the Dark Dragon."

* * *

The wizard was ridiculously easy to find, even by accident.

Mikey had gone to the Librarian's Guild for more information on the book theft, and afterwards had stopped at the closest tavern for lunch. Slouched on a barstool, bragging about how he was going to be 'the master of the Universe!' with his stolen book, was Sheeran the Red.

He'd taken the time to cut his distinctive red hair and shave off his beard, but after a few ales in him, he couldn't help but brag to the patrons of the tavern about the magical coup he'd pulled by stealing the book.

Mikey couldn't believe his Luck.

He was patient, watching Sheeran the Red get sloppy drunk on cheap ale, then followed him out the door and down the alley. Mikey waited in the shadows while Sheeran the Red took a piss, fumbling with his trousers and bracing himself up against the wall to keep from falling on his face.

"What do you do with a drunken pirate?" Sheeran the Red warbled, loudly.

Mikey couldn't help rolling his eyes, and decided to put a stop to _that_ before it went any further. It took just a moment to shove Sheeran the Red against the wall and wrangle his arm behind his back.

"Hey!" Sheeran the Red protested, struggling weakly. "Let me go—ow!"

Mikey used Sheeran the Red's arm to chivvy him down the alley and up the street. "There are some people at the Librarian's Guild who would like to talk to you."

"Oh, damn," Sheeran the Red said.

* * *

The Librarian's Guild paid handsomely, and when Mikey got back to the Dark Dragon, he was pleased with himself.

Dewees was nowhere in sight, but his partner Kitty was busy at the bar. She gestured at him, and pressed a folded piece of parchment into his hand. "Dewees said to give you that." She gave him a bright smile and poured another round of ales for the party of treefolk by the door.

Mikey took a seat at the bar and opened the note. _Possible VIP client for you._

"Where?" he asked Kitty as she came toward his end of the bar again.

She tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. "In your room. She's been waiting for a little while. We sent up some tea, some cookies. Dewees was happy he could use the fancy china."

Mikey snorted a laugh at that, because he wasn't sure that Dewees even knew what fancy china was for. "Thanks," he said to Kitty, and headed up the stairs.

* * *

Mikey wasn't sure what he was going to find when he got back to his room. He certainly wasn't expecting...this.

Sitting in his chair was a woman, with two men standing guard behind her. She was small and dark, dressed in a belted tunic, dark green edged in blue. There were tiny jewels sewn onto the fabric, and they sparkled in the candlelight. There were rings on her fingers and along the curve of her ears, and Mikey could see the hint of a tattoo at the collar of her tunic.

She had a pointy chin and a distinct scar across one cheek, long brown hair done up in a complicated braid in the style of the riverfolk, and Mikey knew who she was without being introduced.

"The Grand Corsair, Jamia Boldheart," one of her guards announced.

"Your Excellency," he said, bowing deeply. Jamia Boldheart had done what had been thought to be impossible: she'd united the raucous clans of the river pirates under her singular banner. With her fleet of small, fast ships, she controlled the flow of trade up and down the Eastern Reaches.

The other guard indicated the empty chair that Dewees must have sent up with the tea tray.

Mikey sat, carefully keeping his hands visible. Jamia Boldheart was a personage of note, and it would _not_ do him any good to alarm her guards.

"Tea?" Jamia offered politely, pouring a cup when Mikey nodded.

"Thank you, Your Excellency," he murmured, taking a sip. It was hot and minty, with just a touch of sweetness.

She looked at him over her cup, studying him. He wondered what she was looking for, and what she saw. "You come highly recommended," she said.

Mikey tilted his head, intrigued. He'd been in the City for almost an entire season, and he'd had a handful of satisfied clients, but he hadn't realized he'd gotten a _reputation_.

"I'm pleased to hear it," he said softly.

Jamia made a noise that sounded suspiciously like an amused snort. "Indeed." She set her teacup onto the saucer resting on the table. "I've recently entered into a contract marriage with a young man from a well-connected family. He is quiet , studious and somewhat retiring. He is planning on pursuing an apprenticeship with the Librarian's Guild, here in the City."

Mikey liked _quiet_ and _studious_ and _retiring_. It meant less risk, less danger, and less chance of permanent death. "And you need someone to keep watch over your new husband?"

Jamia nodded, pursing her lips. "The alliances holding the riverfolk together is tenuous, and I spend a lot of time on diplomacy and finesse to keep it intact, so that the trade routes stay open." She shrugged. "Neither of my wives has any interest in staying here in the City, and I need someone to make sure he stays safe."

Mikey slurped at his tea. "Someone like me."

"Yes." Jamia waved a languid hand and a guard produced a purse filled with tinkling coins. "You'll be compensated handsomely, and you'll have the resources of the river clans at your disposal."

This was a golden opportunity, and there was no way Mikey wasn't going to take it and run. "I'll need a few days to think it over, Your Excellency." There was no reason to appear overly eager, though.

"Of course," Jamia said. "My ship is docked in the harbor, the _Sweet Pea_. I'll await your decision."

* * *

Mikey pictured someone a bit mousey, maybe bespectacled with plain, serviceable clothes. Possibly a pedant, prone to giving long, boring lectures on obscure subjects.

The Grand Corsair's new husband was...none of that. He was bookish, that was true. And bespectacled. But his dress and manner betrayed him as the son of river pirates, with a impish smile that promised nothing but monkeyshines.

He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and slight. Mikey felt the pull of physical attraction, a tight knot centering in his belly. The Grand Corsair's new husband was, unfortunately, exactly Mikey's type.

"I'm Frank," he said with a bow. His cape billowed behind him, black fabric lined with blood red satin. He was covered from neck to ankle to wrist by slightly old-fashioned clothes, but what little skin that _was_ exposed was decorated with bright tattoos.

"Your Excellency," Mikey replied, mirroring his bow.

"Call me Frank," he said, and giggled, a scratchy-rough sound that made Mikey shiver.

Mikey looked into Frank's eyes and got a little lost in their depths. He knew he was in trouble. "Mikey. Mikey Way."

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Richard Siken.


End file.
